


Mine to kill

by antheeia



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelo doesn't understand how feelings work AT ALL, Angst, Anti Fix-It, Character Death, Character Death In Dream, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection, Lots of denial of feelings, Nightmares, Obsession, Realizing what you feel isn't acutally hate but love, Revenge, Self-Pity, Set during Episode 8, Unhealthy Possessiveness, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What was the point of taking revenge on a broken man who gave up on his life? He wanted to be one to break him when he revealed his true identity. He wanted to be Nero’s whole world, his reason for happiness, the only person he loved and trusted, his one and only; he wanted to see that pure trust in his eyes, he wanted to be there when Nero was at his happiest, and then, only then, take everything away from him.</i><br/><br/>Avilio has nightmares about the man he hates the most in this world. He also believes himself to be incapable to feel, when he is actually overwhelmed by some pretty fucked up feelings. Moreover, he might have decided that Nero belongs to him.<br/>A what-if-everything-went-to-shit set during the shoot-out in episode 8, in which Angelo/Avilio struggles with his feelings and his identity, and he doesn't notice a third shooter, putting Nero's life and his own in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine to kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redhales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhales/gifts).



> This is my first fanfiction in a long while.  
> I imagined Angelo separating his own persona from Avilio's one, to (unhealthily) cope with his life, and I tried my best to describe what his thoughts could be in a really tragic situation. I hope its not as bad and confused as it looks to me.  
> Kudos are appreciated, comments are loved, anything is wonderful, really.  
> Enjoy!

Avilio walked close to the other two. Nero and Barbero were talking, but Avilio wasn’t really listening. Their voices were just a comforting background to his own thoughts.

That morning, he was awoken again by a rather strange dream, and it left him unsettled. It was not the first time he had that dream, but this time it had been so vivid, so well defined, that it had left him with a long-lasting uneasiness. Those dreams disrupted his sleep schedule, but most of all, they were breaching his wall of apathy. Avilio didn’t like to admit it, but he was worried that if they went on, they could start to really affect him. They were slowly cracking his numbness apart.

He looked at Nero. In his dream, he saw nothing more than his eyes — those deep, blue eyes — and they shined with affection, laughter, and love. He didn't see much more, everything was blurry, out of focus, but he saw Nero Vanetti’s blue eyes, like they were the only meaningful thing in his whole world. It was a look he didn't see on Nero’s face anymore, but he had seen it before; it was a happier Nero he dreamed of, the cheerful and carefree Nero he first met.

In that dream, Nero’s eyes changed at some point: he opened them wide, his pupils constricted, and what was a look of joy became one of surprise, and then fear. Avilio — or rather Angelo, because in that moment he was the real men behind that mask — cackled, and his own empty laugh echoed in his brain: it was _horrifying_ , a hollow sound of madness and death, something that made it clear he was so lost no one could save him. Could someone give him back his family? Could someone give him back his brother? Could someone give him back _himself_? His only reason to live was his vengeance, and he laughed because he was about to lose that single reason to exist.

Under that deafening laugh, he heard a single gunshot, a gunshot that he fired, the gunshot that would set him free. And then he watched how Nero’s fear was replaced by despair — how it filled his eyes until they brimmed over until they burst into tears. And those tears, ah, those wonderful clear drops of pure pain, of regret, of betrayal, they felt like a river for a thirsty man; his soul craved for them, it felt like he could start licking them, just to see what his vengeance — his long awaited vengeance — tasted like, now that it was finally over, now that he finally had the honor of the Lagusa family back — the honor of his family, the only thing about them that he could get back, the only thing he could save about them, and about himself.

And then, as tears slowly slid down Nero’s face, his eyes started to gradually numb and empty. Angelo watched them void, he eagerly waited for every trace of life to disappear from his enemy’s eyes, like he was absorbing every bit of that life into himself, like he was hoping that Nero’s last breath would be his first, that Nero’s last act could be to give him a new reason to stay alive.

_It’s the least he could do after he took that away from me in the first place._

But that was not gonna happen. And — maybe because he was painfully aware of that — after those eyes became nothing more than empty orbs, a violent, gripping feeling of hopelessness engulfed him whole.

And that is how he woke up. That was how he always woke up, after those dreams, but that morning had been the worst so far. He jolted awake and found himself sitting on his bed, eyes wide open, heart pounding in his chest, and that feeling of hopelessness and emptiness grasping his gut into a grip as cold as ice. He was completely soaked in sweat like he just woke up from a nightmare. But he had just dreamed of his greatest wish came true, of his vengeance finally accomplished, how was that a nightmare?

Maybe he wasn’t used to _feeling_ anymore, and that was why he felt overwhelmed by those emotions. Angelo hated Nero, and hate was an intense feeling, so it took all of his energy to keep himself under control, to shove that sensibility away. He didn’t feel anything else. Hate was counterproductive: he had a purpose, a goal ahead of him; he had a mission, and he had to bring it to an end. He had to take vengeance for what the Vanettis did to his family, he had to earn back what was meant to be his own. There was no room for petty feelings like hate. Or love. That was why he kept it all inside, and he hid it behind that mask: Avilio.

If he was alive, it was only thanks to a quirk of fate; he knew, he had always known that he should have been dead. But he was _there_ , and he had to do something with that time. For years he didn’t: for the longest part of his life, he didn’t have a purpose, no reason to live, neither something to die for; he simply existed, numb and hollow, under the name of Avilio Bruno, without feelings nor goals nor desires, with no hopes nor regrets, just an occasional blunt anger that he blindly directed toward the world, himself and anything in his wake. _Then there was that letter._ It was like a waking call for Angelo. It gave him a purpose, a chance, a meaning to his empty life. And he was thankful for that.

And when he wore that mask, when he was Avilio, he felt like a machine: he had instructions, a goal to reach, and no feelings to hinder him. Everything he did was for the sake of his plan, every word spoken for that reason, every step taken in that direction. Everyone he met, everyone he saved, and everyone he killed, they were all collateral. Everything that mattered to him was Nero. Nero was his objective, his goal. Killing him with his own two hands.

Avilio abruptly interrupted his line of thoughts when he saw someone approaching his small group. He immediately stretched out his arm to protect Nero, almost instinctively. The stranger looked nervous and tense, and he struck him as suspicious almost immediately.

 _Nero is mine._ That was the only simple thought that flashed through Avilio’s mind. In those moments he was efficient, everyone trusted him and relied on him. He had good reflexes, and no distractions; he always carried out his duties — well, at least if he wanted to, but they didn’t need to know that. Barbero walked ahead to meet the stranger, but Avilio stayed back, still protecting Nero. He promised him he would become his brother: no one was ever gonna hurt a hair on his head.

_No one can touch him._

_No one except me._

“Hey. Don’t come any closer,” warned Barbero. The unfamiliar man plainly ignored him and kept walking toward Nero. His walk was unsteady, insecure. It was not the talk of a bold, cold-blooded assassin. Avilio would have recognised someone like that, even if he was faking insecurity.

“Hey… you are Nero Vanetti, right? I’m such a fan of yours.”

_Yes, he is Nero Vanetti. And he is mine to kill._

Avilio’s muscles tensed even more. His mind was focused on his single goal, the only thing he had to accomplish, his mission, the thin thread that kept him together and prevented him from going over the brink: keeping Nero safe, keeping him alive. _So that **I** can kill him._ He was focused, but the thought of that dream still bugged him, like a ghost haunting his mind; he was not _perfectly_ focused. That was bad. That was why he didn’t want feelings. No, that was why he didn’t _need_ feelings.

He scanned the stranger’s body, looking for the telling signs of a gun through his clothes, something in the way he walked hat could give away the fact that he had some kind of weapon.

“Oh, yeah? Glad to hear it.” Nero’s voice rang in his ears, and it only increased Avilio’s concern, and his urge to do something, to chase the danger away. The man who approached them wasn’t armed. Why was he there? What was the plan? He was starting to sweat, and his breath was heavy and irregular. He was nervous.

_Those feelings again._

It took every last bit of strength to push everything even slightly emotional away. There wasn’t time for that.

As soon as he finished talking, Nero started walking away. The man went after him, begging to be heard, and Barbero went after the two, still trying to make that man leave. Avilio wasn’t listening. _That man was a distraction. Exactly like my feelings._

While he tried to keep himself close to Nero, he looked around. If there was a distraction, that meant he could notice something if he was on guard. No, not ‘he could’, he _had_ to notice something, anything. After that, he could think about that dream all he wanted. After that, he would have all the time in the world to be unsettled, to wonder why his own mind was messing with him now that he was so close to his revenge.

He did notice something. He saw a man taking out a machine gun. No, there were two men and two guns. They were not close, so it was difficult to spot if you were not looking for it, but Avilio was. He saw it, and as soon as he did he shouted Nero’s name. He knew he was not too late. He knew Nero would survive long enough for him to kill those sons of a bitch. The man started shooting.

 _You will not touch him._ He almost whispered that, while he took out his gun. The two hit-men started firing, but he trusted Nero, he would be fine. So Avilio shot, he shot five times; he didn't hit them, but he stopped them, and he sent them running.

The only victim had been the man who had approached them earlier. Poor bastard.

Avilio went towards his friends — well, they were not exactly his friends, but probably they considered him so. Barbero’s hair was unusually messy, but he hadn’t suffered any injuries. Nero was perfectly fine, staring at the body on the ground, his breath shortened, and he looked even more pained than before like every single shot fired intensified the black circles under his eyes.

Avilio allowed himself to stare at him for a little while. Just a couple of seconds to stare at Nero’s wide shoulders, at the way his suit wrapped his body, and the way he run his hand through his hair to tidy them up. Everything about that man was Avilio’s. Nero was alive thanks to him, and because of him, and would still be alive until Avilio decided otherwise. It made him feel so powerful, his head felt dizzy with excitement.

He wanted that careless face back, the Nero he first met, the one who didn't have any trace of sadness or nostalgia in his voice while he teased him for the way he drove. What was the point of taking revenge on a broken man who gave up on his life? He wanted to be one to break him when he revealed his true identity. He wanted to be Nero’s whole world, his reason for happiness, the only person he loved and trusted, his one and only; he wanted to see that pure trust in his eyes, he wanted to be there when Nero was at his happiest, and then, only then, take everything away from him. To make that happen, he had to fight for Nero. He had to be his brother. Those thoughts filled him with a bittersweet feeling: a strong, sweet craving for revenge, and some kind of twisted, bitter obsession with the man he hated so intensely, and yet protected so fiercely.

The reflection of a ray of sun flashed into his eyes, and interrupted his thoughts, erasing the joyless smile creeping on his face. He turned his head right away, and that was when he saw it: another hit-man, another weapon. But he had been distracted, and maybe now it was too late. For an instant, he hesitated: that panic, that hopelessness that lurked in the back of his head, the same from his dreams, shut his throat and gripped his guts. But he wouldn’t lose to that, never again.

_I will not stand here watching while the ones I care about getting killed._

That thought sent a shiver down his body, shaking him out of his panic.

 _Care about?_ But there was no time for that, no time to think. There was only time to act, only just enough time to save him.

 _He is mine_ , Avilio repeated to himself, almost as it was a mantra to give him courage, as it was the only thing worth knowing, before shouting Nero’s name.

Nero turned his way, but he would never be able to get to the ground in time. Avilio knew he was too late: that’s why he was running. He heard the first shoots, but he was already there, his hands pushing Nero’s chest down, shoving him out of the way. He felt a piercing pain pass through him from just below his shoulder right to his chest, and then that pain spread everywhere as he started struggling to breathe. They both fell to the ground, and Avilio closed his eyes.

_He is safe._

Avilio’s whole body was burning with pain. He heard Nero’s voice calling his name, and Barbero fired his gun, one, twice, three times, then some second of silence. But the sounds seemed so far away…

He felt someone raise him and turn him over. As soon as his body hit the ground again, he tried to breathe, gasping for air, but his lungs just wouldn’t take in any oxygen.

Avilio opened his eyes, and he saw the sky. It was clear and blue and the sun shone brightly. He thought back to the light of that same sun, only hours before, shining down on Nero while he looked completely miserable. He was lying under a tree, and Avilio was smoking a cigarette, observing him.

“I’m the only one left,” said Nero. “I have to protect the family.”

He was abruptly brought back to the present by a pair of blue eyes in his field of vision. Nero’s eyes were desperate at least as much as his voice calling his name. Avilio’s whole body felt hot, his head light and his throat was completely dry. His sight was blurring, and those scared eyes were the only thing he saw. It was a lot like his dream, but this time — he realized — he was the one whose eyes were gonna be empty. As he finished that thought, he noticed that panic and hopelessness were leaving him as well. He was not just pushing them away, they were just _gone_. Maybe it meant that he was too tired to be afraid, or maybe it meant that what happened was the right ending.

_How ironic. So I **was** meant to be dead all along._

“Avilio! Avilio, just hang in there!” Nero’s voice made Avilio smile sincerely for the first time in a long time. So that was how he died? A useless, meaningless death? He looked at those beautiful eyes, with dark circles that testified his pain now more than before.

 _Maybe I can still kill him._ He slowly moved his hand, reaching for his own gun, ignoring the pain. He had one bullet left.

A single tear wet his cheek, then another fell on his lips. But he wasn’t crying, he knew he wasn’t. He licked it away and tasted it, as he wanted to do in his dream. Nero’s tears were so cold, compared to his burning skin, but they didn’t taste nice, they didn’t taste like vengeance, victory, nor honour. His hands were cold too, pressed on his wound while he asked him to just hang in there.

Avilio’s right hand held the gun. _He is mine to kill, and this is my last chance_ , he told himself. But his hand was shaking, and Nero was crying.

_He is mine… to kill?_

Was that the truth? Or was that just what Avilio kept repeating to himself to hide from the truth? How many times did he have the chance to kill Nero and he didn’t, telling himself bullshit about how he had to wait for the right moment, how he had to wait until after he killed someone else? Was he a coward now, or had he been one all along? How could he know what he was feeling if he spent his whole life refusing to accept his emotions? How could he tell what hate was, what love was, what fear was, if he only ever knew anger?

_I care about him._

As his vision started to darken, he remembered Nero’s determined look and words, just some hours before.

“Will you come with me?”

Avilio had said yes, yet he wouldn’t be able to go. For that he was sorry. That, he regretted. He knew because when Angelo let Luce go, when he wasn’t able to stop him, that night of so many years before, he felt the same void inside. That was regret, right? And Avilio regretted leaving Nero alone.

What he didn’t regret was his hand shaking just now, unable to fire. What he didn’t regret was jumping in front of the gunfire. What he didn’t regret was taking that bullet for Nero. None of those actions made him feel like that.

_I want him to live._

Maybe he was just delirious. Yeah, probably that was it. Or maybe, for the first time, he was actually being true to himself. Avilio could care about Nero — and he did — because Avilio never existed after all. Avilio was just Angelo’s mask. And Angelo was meant to be dead. He should have been for a long time, he just never found the courage to kill himself, he just didn’t have the will to do anything; he was never good for anything, after all, not even saving his brother… Not even avenging his family.

“Avilio, you can't leave me!”

Nero was screaming, and never, even in his wildest dream had Angelo imagined such a bewildered look of despair in his eyes. That should have made him happy, but it didn’t. Nero was losing him, the guy who said he was going to be his brother. It was like losing another member of his family. He was broken, he was probably feeling something similar to what Angelo felt on that night, and all of that because of someone that never existed. Angelo should have been satisfied, even if just a little, but he only felt regret.

_I said I was going to be his brother._

But that was a lie. Or had Avilio really only wanted to protect Nero all along? Can you be so angry at someone, and yet wish for nothing else but for him to be alive and happy? Can you wish to see someone dead, and yet take a bullet for him? Can you have no feelings at all, yet hate someone? Can you hate the whole world, and love the only person you’re meant to hate? Could those two sides of him actually coexist?

They probably couldn’t. But Angelo died so many years before, and Avilio was meant to have no feelings, no emotions, he was meant to bring Angelo where he wanted to be and then go away and let Angelo kill those who took the people he loved away from him. But Avilio didn’t do any of that. He was useless, he panicked, he cared for Nero, and now it was his turn to die, to pay for his uselessness.

Nero was wrong: he could leave him. He _had_ to leave him. Angelo thought back to that letter, that list of names, and he remembered that he still didn’t know one of those names. He should have felt regret for not having enough time, or not using it well enough, but Avilio didn’t. _He_ didn’t care. So Angelo gave up.

Nero was safe. He was alive. He would be fine. He had accomplished that, at least. And in that instant — while he drew his last breath — Avilio, the man who never existed, thought that, to someone like him, that wasn’t a bad accomplishment after all.

Yes, Angelo’s vengeance gave him a reason to live, but Nero Vanetti gave him a reason to die _._


End file.
